"Come down to the pond with me this afternoon," said Dorothy as she and Ruth parted on their way home from school a few days after the skating-party, "and we'll go into a quiet comer and practice until you feel sure of yourself."

"All right; I'll go," Ruth answered, "but I can't stay long; I must study for at least an hour before dinner."

"Well, be at my house by two, and then we shall have the pond almost to ourselves for a while, and we'll be ready to go home by the time the crowd gets there."

Dorothy was a good teacher and in the hour they spent on the pond
Ruth gained both skill and confidence.

"I never shall be nervous again about it," she said with enthusiasm as they took a last swing around the pond together. "It's like so many other things; you have to get the feeling of it before you can really enjoy it."

"That's so," assented Dorothy; "you probably never will lose it now. My, but it's growing colder every minute, isn't it? Let's hurry home, and I'll make some hot chocolate. You'll have plenty of time before you need to study."

Ruth stooped to take off her skates at once. "I'm really as hungry as a bear," she confessed, "and a cup of your chocolate will be fine."

When the girls entered the house Dorothy stopped short as she caught the sound of voices in the library. She listened intently a second, then she frowned, put her finger on her lips, and grasping Ruth by the hand led her softly across the hall and up-stairs. Not until they had reached the large room in the third story and had closed the door did she break the silence which enfolded them.

"For pity's sake," asked Ruth as she took off her coat and hat, "what is it and who is it?"

"Oh, it's only Miss Cynthia," answered Dolly carelessly. "I didn't want mother to know I'm in the house."

"Who's Miss Cynthia?" pursued Ruth with great curiosity, "and why don't you want your mother to know?"

"Why, Miss Cynthia Atwood, of course. Don't you know her yet? You're fortunate, that's all I can say. She lives in that funny little house near the library, and she's the last surviving member of one of the oldest families here. I ought to know, for she's told me times enough."

"But why don't you like her?" persisted Ruth, who was toasting herself in front of the open fire while Dorothy got out the materials for the chocolate.

"Oh, I don't know," answered Dolly with a shrug. "She's tiresome and inquisitive, and she's always coming round to make visitations on days when she ought not to be out, and then we girls or the boys have to see that she gets home safely. I can't help slipping out of her way whenever I can."

"Well, you certainly slipped this time," said Ruth with a laugh. "I didn't really know what was going to happen to me. What a good-timey looking room this is, Dolly," she went on, glancing about her. "I always feel when I am up here as if I can't go away until I've tried every one of these games."

It was a huge room, rather bare of ornament except for the pictures Frank and Dorothy had put up, but wholly suggestive of good times, as Ruth had said. Nothing was too good for use, and everything promised pleasure of the most wholesome kind.

"Father and mother like us to have our best times at home," said Dolly sipping her chocolate with a critical air, "and Frank and I have had this room for a playroom ever since I can remember."

"It must be fine to have a brother or sister," said Ruth wistfully.
"I don't think only children have half so much fun."

"They miss some quarrels, too," laughed Dolly. "Poor old Frankie! He's splendid discipline for my temper, for he can be the most exasperating boy I ever saw. I suppose I'm just as exasperating, though," she added honestly.

"Is that four o'clock?" asked Ruth suddenly. "Dear me, I must go, though I'd much rather stay here. Your chocolate is great, Dolly, and those nice little wafers were perfect with it."

"I hate to have you go, but I'll walk over with you just to get a little more air," said Dolly, settling her fur turban on her blonde locks. "Now we must go down softly, for Miss Cynthia may still be here. I dare say Frank is somewhere about, and mother can get him to take her home," she added, as if she half felt the need of an apology. "I'm sure it's his turn to go, anyway."

It was with the feeling of being guilty conspirators that the girls stole down-stairs and tiptoed softly across the hall, and they both jumped violently, when, even as Dorothy had her hand on the door-knob, Mrs. Marshall's voice called:

"Dorothy, is that you, dear?"

"Yes, mother," answered Dorothy in a voice expressive of resigned despair. Then she added in a tragic whisper, "We are lost! There is no escape from our unhappy fate!"

"Dorothy, Miss Cynthia is here, and I want you to see that she gets safely home," said her mother.

"Yes, mother," answered Dorothy again, looking at Ruth with an
I-told-you-so expression. "Don't you dare to leave me, Ruth Shirley,"
she went on fiercely. "You'll have plenty of time to go with me.
Come on in now and be introduced to her."

Ruth hardly knew what picture she had formed of Miss Cynthia, but she certainly hadn't expected to meet the pretty, pink-cheeked old lady to whom Mrs. Marshall presented her. She was the smallest, most delicate of creatures, with snowy hair and bright blue eyes, which in darting glances seemed to absorb in minutest detail the person to whom she was talking.

"And so this is Ruth Shirley," she said, holding one of Ruth's hands in both her tiny ones. "I'm very glad to know you, my dear. It seems as if Mrs. Hamilton might have brought you over to call on me before this. But then I'm used to being forgotten. How are Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and how is that dear boy, Arthur?" Miss Cynthia paused for breath and Ruth gladly released her hand.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton are very well," she answered, "and Arthur is much—"

"I always said he would be better if he would only make an effort," interrupted Miss Cynthia triumphantly. "But I began to be afraid he never would, and I thought it most likely that he would go off into a decline, I've often told Mary Hamilton that I should be worried to death if he were my boy. Do you hear from your father often? It must be pretty bad to have him so far away; so many things can happen nowadays that you can't tell from one day to the next where you'll be or how you'll be. Of course you know that, though, having lost your mother, poor child."

"She hears very often from her father," said Mrs. Marshall, noticing Ruth's flushed cheeks, "and he makes the distance seem very short by sending cablegrams every once in a while. Now, Miss Cynthia, let me help you on with your cape, and then you can start out with an escort on each side of you."

"Now, girls, you'll have to excuse me if I don't talk much," said Miss Cynthia apologetically, as they were leaving the house; "this icy wind makes my throat feel sore. But I shall be delighted to hear you talk. Girls always have such a lot to say to each other."

"Please come in and rest yourselves," said Miss Cynthia with urgent hospitality, as they reached the door of the small old-fashioned looking house which Ruth had often noticed before.

Dorothy began hasty explanations about being in a hurry to get home, but Miss Cynthia laid an imploring hand on Ruth's arm and, looking at her with real appeal in her blue eyes, almost drew her into the house.

"We'll let Dorothy go if she must," she said decidedly, "but I want to get acquainted with you, child, and I'm terribly lonesome, too, these winter afternoons."

Even with every desire to escape Ruth couldn't resist the pleading old eyes which were looking at her almost tearfully.

"Do come in, Dolly," she begged; "I shall have time before I need to study to stay a little while." But almost as she spoke Dorothy vanished unaccountably, and there was nothing left for Ruth but to follow Miss Cynthia.

"Come right into the parlor and sit down, while I find Luella and have her light a lamp," said the old lady, hurrying out of the room with surprising agility.

The room was so dark that at first Ruth hardly dared to move, then as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she found her way to a chair and sat down on the edge of it. She didn't enjoy the situation in which she found herself, and she wished she were out of it. Even the algebra which she must study as soon as she got home possessed a charm for her in comparison with the present moment. She half smiled as she thought of the suddenness with which Dorothy had faded from sight.

"She might have waited after getting me into this," she said to herself impatiently.

Just then with a suddenness which sent her flying out of her chair a harsh voice said almost in her ear:

"Cheer up! Cheer up! Don't you cry!" and then followed an unintelligible variety of sounds ending with a cackling laugh.

Ruth knew almost at once that it must be a parrot, but the surprise had been so great that she stood shaking in the middle of the room, not daring to move for fear of stepping on the uncanny bird. She remembered that once when she was a very little girl she had confidingly held out her finger to a parrot and that the unfriendly creature had immediately taken a bite out of it. She wished that the light would come; it made her nervous to be in a dark room with only a voice for company.

"Who's afraid?" asked the parrot with surprising distinctness.

"I am, Polly," answered Ruth with great truthfulness, and just then the maid brought in a lamp and her mistress followed.

"Oh, you bad bird," said Miss Cynthia reproachfully, as the friendly gleam of the lamp disclosed the parrot perched on the back of the chair next to the one on which Ruth had been sitting. "You bad Ebenezer, you've opened your cage again. Isn't it clever of him. to do it?"

"Very clever," answered Ruth politely, but she still kept a safe distance from Ebenezer, who cocked his head on one side to look at her. and then burst into a hoarse, chuckling laugh as though he had seen something very funny.

"That bird is such a comfort to me," sighed Miss Cynthia, smoothing the gay plumage. "I named him Ebenezer because it's so nice to have a man's name that you can call naturally in case you think some one's in the house. I got a man that worked for us to teach him what to answer when I call his name. Just listen, my dear."

Miss Cynthia stepped into the hall. "Ebenezer! Ebenezer!" she called loudly, and to Ruth's amusement Ebenezer answered promptly in a voice that sounded surprisingly like that of a man, "Yes, I'm coming."

"I guess that would scare a burglar some," remarked Miss Cynthia, complacently, "particularly as you never could tell but that Ebenezer might be right close to the man's ear when he answered. I taught him to say 'Cheer up, cheer up; don't you cry,' because sometimes I'm dreadfully lonesome. It helps out even to have a bird to talk to."

She looked very sober as she ended, but Ebenezer, fixing a solemn eye on her, barked loudly and then mewed like a cat, evidently desiring to make his mistress feel that she had a large family to comfort her.

"He thinks he's a whole menagerie," laughed Ruth.

"Shake hands with her, Ebenezer, and settle it," commanded Miss Cynthia, and at the word the bird stretched out his funny claw, which Ruth took in gingerly fashion.

"Ebenezer likes young folks as well as I do," said his mistress soberly, "but somehow they don't care much about coming to see us. Aren't you the girl who likes lace and embroidery?" she asked suddenly. "I've heard about your going over to see that Swiss girl make lace. I've been looking over a chest this morning and I've left all the old dresses out to air. Would you like to see them?"

Ruth assented eagerly. This would be an easy way for her to finish her call, and she loved to see old-fashioned things. Miss Cynthia was pleased at her enthusiasm, and after returning Ebenezer to his despised cage, an attention which he acknowledged by pecking gently at her white hair and screaming "Bad bird, bad bird," led the way up the short, steep flight of stairs.

"What a dear room!" exclaimed Ruth giving a quick glance about her. Then as her eyes fell upon the treasures spread upon the bed she cried out with pleasure.

"What a beautiful blue gown! Did somebody really ever wear it?"

"That was my great-aunt's wedding gown, my Great-aunt Cynthia. It was given to the niece who was named for her, and then to me on account of the name."

Ruth gazed admiringly at the shining satin, blue as a summer sky, and made in the quaint fashion of years long past.

"Here are the shoes and the gloves which went with it," continued Miss Cynthia, "and a fan which she carried. These little lace tuckers were hers, too. She never lived to wear out all her pretty fineries, poor little soul, but I've been told that her short life was a happy one and a very sweet memory to all who knew her."

Miss Cynthia's voice and eyes were strangely gentle as she talked about the youthful great-aunt whose shining gown had been one of her choicest treasures for so many years, and Ruth began to like her.

"Do you know how she looked?" she asked with real interest in her voice. "I should like to imagine her in this lovely dress."

"My aunt," answered Miss Cynthia musingly, "was too young when she died to remember her; but she has told me many times that her father, who was the first Cynthia's brother, often said she was the prettiest creature the sun ever shone on, with black hair and rosy cheeks and blue eyes that were like violets. I like to talk about her," added Miss Cynthia. "Here are more things my Aunt Cynthia left me."

Ruth, who had an instinctive liking for delicate fabrics and fine embroideries, reveled in the beautiful pieces of hand-work which Miss Cynthia showed her. There was a muslin gown embroidered so profusely that one wondered if the patient needlewoman had any eyes left when her artistic work was completed. There were fichus, small and large, with patterns simple and elaborate, looking as though a breath might blow them out of existence, so fragile was their substance. Ruth laughed gleefully at the face which looked out at her from the mirror when Miss Cynthia told her to put on a queer, old bonnet which she called a calash. There was a ribbon hanging under her chin which the old lady called a bridle, and when Ruth pulled it the bonnet stretched like the top of an old-fashioned chaise.

"How funny," laughed Ruth. "Did you. really ever wear one like this?"

"That was my dear mother's," answered Miss Cynthia, "but I can just remember having one when I was a little girl."

"Oh, dear. I hate to leave all these interesting things, but I must go home," said Ruth, reluctantly laying the calash on the bed, and taking a last look at the beautiful things displayed there. "I've had a lovely call, Miss Cynthia, and I thank you so much for letting me see these wonderful old dresses."

"My dear, if you would prize it I should like you to have this handkerchief which was my Great-aunt Cynthia's."

"Oh, Miss Cynthia, I couldn't take anything so lovely," protested
Ruth.

"My dear child, there's no one else who will care for these things as I have done, and it's been a great pleasure to show them to some one who is sympathetic, and—and I know my little great-aunt would have liked you to have it if she could have known you."

Miss Cynthia's voice was trembling and her eyes looked clouded and wistful. Ruth could hardly believe that this was the sharp-voiced, prying old lady whom she had wished to escape meeting earlier in the afternoon.

"Dear Miss Cynthia," she answered impulsively, "I never shall forget your Great-aunt Cynthia, and I shall be delighted to own something that belonged to her. I'm sure I never had anything half so lovely as this cobwebby handkerchief. Have the other girls," she went on hesitatingly, "ever seen these beautiful old things?" She would have liked to ask that they might all see them together some day, but she hardly dared.

"No," said Miss Cynthia ungraciously, "they haven't. The girls in this town don't care anything about me or my belongings, and they never come here if they can help it. The boys are nicer." And forthwith Miss Cynthia told Ruth some of the kind things the boys had done for her, and grew quite gentle and friendly again in the telling.

"I often wish I knew something I could do for them," she added.
"It's so hard to think of anything that would really please boys."

"If they should see the bundles of letters you have there, Miss Cynthia," suggested Ruth, "I'm sure they'd ask you if you could spare any stamps. They're all crazy over their collections."

"Are they really?" asked Miss Cynthia, as if a new idea had been given her. "Why, my dear, those are letters from all over the world written to my blessed father. One of his dearest friends was a sea-captain who sailed everywhere, and always mailed letters to my father from every port he touched."

Even as she spoke, Miss Cynthia was excitedly slipping the letters out of their envelopes. "Here," she said, thrusting a package into Ruth's hands. "You help me, and then you may take them home to Arthur, and he can divide with the others. Of course I don't know which ones they will like, so I'll send them all."

"Good-bye, Miss Cynthia. I can hardly wait to show these to the boys," said Ruth as her hostess came slowly down the steep stairs behind her, and then she jumped and almost screamed when, "Good-bye, good-bye; come again," came hoarsely from under her very feet.

"It's only Ebenezer out again," said Miss Cynthia serenely. "I must have the catch on that door made stronger."

Five minutes later Ruth rang the door-bell at home, and, as she stepped into the house, Dorothy came toward her from the library.

"Oh, did you think I was perfectly dreadful?" cried Dolly, putting on a very penitent expression.

"Well, yes, I did just at first. Then Ebenezer told me to 'cheer up' and after that, to tell the truth, I forgot all about you. I've had a perfectly lovely time."

"A lovely time!" echoed Dorothy. "Well, you are a funny girl."

"Are the boys here with Arthur?" Ruth went on, noticing for the first time the hum of voices in the library.

"Yes," answered Dolly. "They're busy over their everlasting stamps as usual. I've just been in to see if Frank was ready to go home and I told them where you were."

"Do come in again with me," begged Ruth, "and see if they like what
I have for them."

A stormy discussion was in progress when they entered the room, but Phil, who never forgot his good manners, got up to find chairs for the young ladies, and the other boys fired a volley of questions at Ruth, who could hardly stop to answer them, so great was her excitement. She laid the old envelopes on the table with an air of triumph. "I do hope you'll find something there that's really valuable," she added, "for Miss Cynthia was so pleased at the idea of giving you something you would like. She said you boys had always been so nice to her."

Ruth's face and manner were the perfection of innocence, but for some reason there was a tinge of discomfort in the manner of the boys gathered around the table.

"That looks like a good one, Phil," said Arthur, pushing an envelope across the table. "Just look it up in the catalogue, will you?"

"She said that Joe," Ruth went on relentlessly, "had always been very good about doing errands for her and seeing her home from his grandmother's."

"I never did anything for her," blustered Joe, turning red, "except what I had to."

"And she told me that for one whole winter, Frank and Bert kept all her paths clean," pursued Ruth, purposely refraining from looking at her unhappy victims, "and wouldn't take a cent for it when she wanted to pay them."

"We did it just because we happened to want to," growled Frank, looking as uncomfortably guilty as though he had been discovered in some bad action.

"Say, there are some dandy stamps here," said Phil, fearing that his turn was coming next and anxious to change the conversation. "Did you ever see one like that, Art?"

The boys poked over the stamps in an excited silence, gazed at them through lenses, and hunted in the catalogue with an absorbed interest which seemed to make them quite forget their guests. Every few minutes they found a new treasure.

At last Ruth got up with an air of pretended indignation and walked toward the door saying, "Come on, Dolly; let's go. We don't seem to be wanted here."

"Please don't go," said Arthur with an air so distressingly polite that it wouldn't have deceived any one.

"All right for you," laughed Ruth as she closed the library door behind her; "just wait until I bring you stamps again."

For a few minutes after the departure of the girls not a word was spoken. Then Joe gave vent to a sudden groan and put his hand to his head.

"Is my hair entirely burnt off on the top of my head?" he asked in comical despair. "These are the hottest coals of fire I've ever had handed out to me, That wretch of a Ruth knew she was making us squirm."

"I'm afraid the poor old lady never had any chance to be grateful to me," said Arthur uncomfortably.

"The worst of it is," confessed Frank, "that father was paying Bert and me for every bit of that shoveling and Miss Cynthia never knew it. I feel as if I wanted to go right round there and do something for her this very minute."

"So do I," agreed Joe and Bert almost at the same time.

"Let's form a secret order," suggested Arthur, "and pledge ourselves to make Miss Cynthia as happy as possible for the rest of her life."

No one answered for a moment and then Phil said thoughtfully, "We might call it the 'Order of the Moon.' Cynthia is one of the names for the moon, you know. Don't you remember, Art, we were reading in class this morning about 'fair Cynthia's rays' or something like that?"

"That's great!" said Frank, "and that name will drive the girls wild, for they'll never guess what it means."

And so the "Order of the Moon" was established then and there, and to the credit of the boys be it said that the fine purpose for which it was started was faithfully carried out.